


Maggie x Ronald: Dribble-Down-Economics

by Isaacdoesart, maybejude



Category: American Politics RPF, British Politics RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., Political RPF - US 21st c., Politics - Fandom, Politics RPF
Genre: (mention) - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Crack, Crack Fic, Degredation Kink, Dominant, Dominant margaret thatcher, F/M, Girl Boss, Light Dom/sub, Maggie T doesn’t cum bc im a lazy writer and its 1 am, NSFW, Politics, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, US-UK relations, ball busting, iron lady, sub ronald reagan, well...SOME plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29298303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isaacdoesart/pseuds/Isaacdoesart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybejude/pseuds/maybejude
Summary: After years of pining, Thatcher and Reagan finally decide to admit their feelings to one another in the most passionate of ways.
Relationships: Ronald Reagan/Margaret Thatcher
Kudos: 7





	Maggie x Ronald: Dribble-Down-Economics

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes we make mistakes, this is one of mine (happy mistake though).  
> Disclaimer: I am a gay British man. I, for obvious reasons, do not like Margaret Thatcher. This is a joke. My co-author feels the same way.

Margaret had never felt this way before. Even her husband hadn’t managed to excite her as much as Reagan had. She knew she was enamoured from the moment she set eyes on him, knowing that their two souls were connected in the greatest trans-atlantic partnership ever to be formed. They were political and spiritual soulmates.

Thatcher had first set her eyes upon the land of the free at the age of all but forty two, in the year of 1967. Her six weeks there had convinced her of two things:  
With a strong trans-Atlantic relationship, the horrors of Communism could be defeated.  
American men were wusses.  
But it was only eight years later that she had finally been blessed with the most life-altering of trips. It was a surprisingly mild April, but the warm Californian sun had meant that any hint of a cold British winter was unrecognisable on the other side of the pond. Reagan was the then governor of California. His stark blue eyes shone like the headlights of a privatised railway train and his smile seemed to brighten her whole world. A month later, she had doubled down on her infatuation, receiving a courteous thank-you letter. It soon became the future Prime Minister’s most treasured possession, and (unbeknownst to her loving, although dull, husband) was soon coated in lipstick marks. In it, he had described himself as an ‘enthusiastic supporter’ of her, but she hoped...dreamed even that they could become more. How she wished she could kiss Reagan as much as she had that beautiful letter. It is rather hard to French kiss a piece of paper without suffering some nasty cuts.

A lot had changed since 1975, Reagan was now President of the United States of America, and Thatcher herself had risen to a higher office, that of Prime Minister. Both of their terms were in full swing, having received a heartfelt and reassuring reelection, which had lit up Margret’s heart as few things did these days (save the suffering of Miner’s children). It was a day similar in all but date and attitude to their first meeting. Although marginally colder, the sun beat down from a cloud free sky, and Maggie felt a cool, rousing breeze on her face.  
Walking through the military base, her heart swelled with confidence and pride, knowing that she would be able to provide the best of news to Reagan. Her recent meeting with charming and Sexy Soviet Leader Michael Gorbachev had gone to plan. Whilst he was sometimes disarming, she had been able to force further agreements, and she felt deep within her body that the end of Communism was all but a matter of time. Her black, Girl Boss heels clicked commandingly on the concrete as she walked towards the meeting room, flanked on either side by security guards, and followed close behind by her personal secretary. She had specifically requested that whoever was in the role of Ministry for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs this week miss out on the meeting. They seemed to change so rapidly as of late, and Margret was irritated with the combination of fights and pandering. So she had got her way, as she always did, and they would not be coming to this meeting in particular.  
She felt a warmth in her chest, but her hands quivered slightly with anticipation, as she reached closer and closer to the meeting she had looked forward to for so long. Clad in a characteristically smart navy suit, neck and ears adorned with pearls, and her hair perfectly quaffed with her usual neckerchief on, Maggie felt as confident and self assured in her appearance as it was possible to be.

Finally reaching the door to the right building, she was led by one of her security guards through a series of doors and corridors until she got to the room that she knew deep inside her soul contained her darling Mr Ronald Reagan. The service-member gently pushed the door open, revealing Reagan, seated and expecting. His devilishly wrinkly and rectangular face beamed in her direction,  
‘Mrs Thatcher! It is a pleasure to see you again!’  
His accent always had made her...feel things. Already excited, she reciprocated his warm greeting and stepped inside the meeting room, tailed by the other security guard and her secretary. Reagan shifted on his feet, faltering from his usual self assured demeanor, and drawing attention to his sharply pressed, all-American suit. Naturally, it was navy, emphasising his strong broad shoulders, and was in striking contrast with the tight, well tied and positively suggestive red tie around his neck.To be quite frank, she admitted, Reagan seemed a little hot under the collar.  
Looking up and down his body, Margaret eventually met Reagan’s eyes, and the two lingered there for just a second too long for a purely political partnership. Embarrassed, she made a quick turn to the service members and secretary standing behind her.  
‘For reasons of confidentiality,’ she said, looking at each of them in turn, ‘Mr Reagan and I would greatly appreciate it if you were to sit outside for this meeting.’  
The service members looked at eachother, clearly uncomfortable with abandoning the one woman who they had been asked to protect.  
‘Come on now, the Lady's not for turning,’’ Mrs Thatcher said, with a tight smile. To be honest, no man in their right mind would try and cross the Iron Lady, and so it was inevitable that they looked over at one another again, and gave a severe nod before ducking out of the room, waiting patiently outside. In their defence, it was unlikely that anyone had been able to enter the room already, undetected by Reagan’s guards, and so it was very very unlikely that an attempt on either of their lives could be made.  
‘That includes you,’ Thatcher stated pointedly at her now very intimidated secretary. The woman stammered for a few seconds, desperate to convince Mrs Thatcher that her presence in the room was a necessary evil for her shorthand skills, but Margaret was not having it, and she scurried out moments later.

‘Finally…’ She let out a breath, not bothering to finish the sentence.  
‘It’s good to see you Mrs Thatcher.’  
‘Likewise, Mr Reagan, it has been far far too long for my liking.’  
There was a moment of silence between the two of them, as they sat down awkwardly at the meeting table. If Margaret searched within herself, she probably would’ve realised that in no way had she prepared beyond the moment she opened that door. Everything from here onwards was like an unregulated free market, terrifying but wonderful at the same time, and would arguably be significantly better than if she had scripted it. She wasn’t sure what she had to say to Reagan now but she knew it had to come from the heart. What she was not expecting, however, was for him to speak first.  
‘You’re a strong woman, you’ve always impressed me. From the moment I met you I knew that we were politically kindred spirits. And whilst you’re very effective in crushing the unions, I feel like the opposite is happening to my heart.’ It was beyond anything she could have ever imagined, and he continued, ‘Margaret, you fill me with as much hope and joy as the people of the Valleys and the North lack. I practically haven’t slept since your secretary called mine and let me know the success of your trip to Moscow.’  
Maggie loved the way he talked, the irritatingly inaccurate, Americanised pronunciation of Moscow (‘Moss-Cow’) made her almost positively feverish, and she felt a quiver run through her every time he said her name. Suddenly realising that this was the moment she had waited for for so long, she lent forward, placing her arms upon the meeting table and clasping her hands together.  
‘I feel much the same Mr President.’  
His eyes were searching, expectant almost, seeming to be begging for more praise than her short reciprocation had allowed for. It made Maggie want to grin, but she kept it to herself, always one for a love of control.  
‘That is to say, Mr President,’ his eyes were transfixed by matching, genetically-mutated blue ones, ‘you’re the most wonderful and like minded man I’ve ever met.’ She was careful to avoid a mention of her husband’s own inadequacy, and continued, ‘The way you’ve artfully managed to shift your country’s politics so far to the right, your federal judges, perfectly aligned with your politics, and all of the help you’ve provided to help overthrow those dirty, communist governments in the Middle East and Central America. Mr Reagan, I am not only proud of your strong and admirable action, but proud to know you.’

It was clear, even to an outside observer, that this level of praise greatly excited the President...in a less than...statesmanly way. Compelled by some unGodly, although deeply traditional and Christian force (or the invisible hand of the free-market), both Reagan and Thatcher stood up from the meeting table, making their way towards each other, on the side furthest from the door. Stopping with but half a meter between one another, they suddenly became aware of what they were doing, but it was too late in the game for shame. Reagan and Margaret had already bared a surprising volume of their hearts to one another, and unless she was very much mistaken, Maggie knew that he strongly reciprocated her political and spiritual feelings for him.

Like the good conservative Christians that they were, the two of them prayed silently, almost in tandem, for the forgiveness of God for what they were about to do. But a union of two souls in such a perfect political manner must be consummated, regardless of the traditional teachings of the Bible. There is no other way to get around the perfection that the two of them, together, were. And upon accepting that even the holy spirit and God could not help them now, Margaret stepped closer than she ever thought she would get the chance to. Reagan inhaled sharply, and she faltered for a second, worrying about the existence of a grave mistake, but his eyes and his demeanor were inviting and as unregulated as their economic ideology.  
Taking the greatest risk of her political life, she leaned forwards, lifting herself higher, the final few inches towards Reagan’s face that she desperately needed to make. Their eyes met, as she leaned in, the Iron Lady softening as her anti-Communist lips met his and she felt a spark unlike anything she had ever had before leap between the two of them.

She drew back from their tender kiss, ‘would you like to...deregulate some industries with me?  
‘Yes Margaret, yes i do.’ He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her in close. She felt him hard against her and drew in a short breath, shifting her weight to spread her legs slightly, and pulling herself closer to him. Twisting round so Reagan’s back was to the meeting table, she kissed him harder, pushing Reagan against the table behind him.

Their bodies were pressed together, and their jaws clashed with such reckless abandon that you’d think they were not socially tamed. They had been possessed with an animalistic vigour not dissimilar to the Hobbesian conception of human nature from which their shared ideology was predicated upon. This moment put the tender, almost chaste first kiss into the most harsh of perspectives as the two’s teeth clashed, noses bumping. They were in a mindless frenzy, Reagan nipping with his white American teeth at her ear lobes, clad with her usual giant pearls. She gasped, and their lips moved back to one another's. It was only when Maggie found herself to be biting Reagan’s lip, startled back to reality by the shocked moan that escaped his Capitalist throat that she realised just how far she was willing to go with him. Of course, in the most private recesses of her mind, and in the back of her brain when in bed, she had considered it in great detail, but more than often it was through the medium of her husband, clad in suit and often slammed against a wall whilst she undressed him. Oh. Yes. Now she was thinking. Thinking very hard indeed. Good lord she had never before wanted so desperately to do things to a man.

Reagan was still gasping from their kiss, and she wrapped a hand tightly around his tie. Giving it a small, suggestive but in no way violating tug, she asked,  
‘Is this okay?’  
Reagan’s eyes lit up in a way she had not expected, but was incredibly grateful to see. He nodded enthusiastically.  
‘Use your words Mr President,’ she warned.  
‘Yes Mrs Thatcher.’  
‘Yes Mrs Thatcher, what?’ A hint of a grin spreading to the corners of her face.  
‘Yes Mrs Thatcher, please. Please.’  
‘Good boy,’ she grinned, pulling down on his tie, tight around his neck and leaving him red in the face after a few seconds, blood pressure immense in all departments and head spinning.  
‘Did you like that?’ She asks, suddenly surprisingly self conscious. Gasping, Reagan struggled to reply, but his hard dick gave most of the answer.  
‘Y-yes Mrs Thatcher.’  
‘Good.’  
Just as she was about to lean in once again for another Girl Boss Thatcherite kiss, Reagan stopped. He seemed to suck in a pained breath as if he was about to admit something horrific, or actually repent for a war crime.  
‘Thatcher….please peg me!’  
Her jaw went slack for a second, before regaining her Iron composure. If Reagan wanted to take it in the ass that was fine, it wasn’t like he was promoting the gay lifestyle in schools afterall.  
She tried to stop her voice quivering with the anticipation she felt, ‘Alright Mr Reagan. I wasn’t even sure how far you’d be willing to go but...if that’s what you want.’  
‘More than anything Mrs Thatcher. And please, call me Ronald.’  
‘If that’s what you wish...Ronald.’  
A sly, grateful smile broke out onto his Capitalist face, but Thatcher faltered.  
‘Wait...Ronald, I can’t use anything besides—’ She looked panicked for a second, but Ronald’s face didn’t change, ‘my fingers.’  
‘That’s fine,’ he smiled.  
She pulled him into a quick and harsh kiss, leaving him winded and his lips desperate, for her touch again, lying back on the table, papers pushed aside to make room for him and Operation Cyclone files fluttered to the floor.  
‘You dirty, dirty criminal Mr Reagan. What were you thinking invading Grenada like that, hm?’  
He shuddered, desperate for her to tell him just how useless he really was.  
‘And what about that government debt, hm?’  
She barely waited for a response before pressing her soft middle-aged lips to his, suddenly desperate for contact. Ronald Reagan gasped as Margaret ran her fingers through his gelled hair, giving a sudden hard tug that let him know that he was her private property. Maggie could see it in his eyes that he was desperately aching for her to be in him. Leaning just far enough away that she would appear stronger and more commanding, she placed a palm to his chest and pushed him back. His back was flat on the table and her harsh, and horninly stearn face was looking down on him.  
‘Rather Laissez-Faire, don’t you think...Ronald?’ She asked (although it was barely a question), still getting used to the feeling of his name in her mouth. It was so personal, far more personal than entering him.

The Prime Minister noticed that her hands were on his belt, quickly unbuckling it in an attempt to relieve him from the freshly ironed fabric of the suit trousers that was pressing tightly against him. Reagan—sorry, Ronald, looked positively bowled over by the whole situation, still appearing honestly starstruck as Maggie managed to yank his trousers half way down his legs.  
‘Take your shoes off Ronald,’ she commanded.  
‘Yes Mrs Thatcher,’ he obliged, unlacing his smart Presidential shoes as quickly as his overwhelmingly horny brain could allow. Kicking them off within an instant, he lay back down.  
Margaret nimbly removed her neckerchief, unfolding it so that it became a long piece of silky fabric. Lifting his awkwardly placed arms from his sides, above his head, he let out a small gasp of realisation and longing as she tied his wrists together with the soft scarf. Just tight enough that he couldn’t really move his hands, his personal Strategic Defence Initiative had certainly been disabandoned. God, he thought, he’d love to be tied up fully by her. It would be so...nice, to lie there on his stomach, hard dick pressing into the floor, with his hands and feet tied together behind his back.  
‘There we go,’ Maggie said in a breathy voice that surprised even her. Stepping back to survey her work, she smirked and leaned forwards into a soft and passionate kiss. Pulling back, Margaret wrapped a slender, strong hand around his neck, and once again he begged her for to make him feel so wonderfully light headed. Reagan let her know without a shadow of a doubt that her Girl Bossery was absolutely desired. The tight, reassuring squeeze on his neck was all he needed to involuntarily spread his legs, wrapping around Maggie T’s waist on either side and letting out a low moan. Seconds later, she was pulling his upper body up by the tie, a warning look in her eyes, as another moan rippled from his mouth.  
‘When I say you’re a good boy Ronald, I don’t mean you can just do anything you want. Now shut up, or one of the officers outside will hear you. And you wouldn’t want those big...strong...men to possibly view their President as the weak little piece of shit he really is, right?’  
Ronald Reagan shook his head, desperately horny and wanting to oblige.  
‘No, Mrs Thatcher.’  
‘That’s a good boy,’ she said, sliding a finger into his mouth to make sure he really would be quiet, ‘and good boys get railed if that’s what they really want.’

Margaret removed his tie, and peeled his Capitalist underwear off of him, and lifted his inflexible, middle-aged man legs as close to above his head as they would go, exposing his bare and surprisingly waxed asshole. She could tell he’d been preparing for the occasion, and she felt a swell of joy within her, and a bit of a swell elsewhere too. His hard cock would be, to anyone but her and potentially his wife, a sight for sore eyes, but she drank the image in, neglecting him the privilege of touch where he most wanted it. She paused for a second, considering the merits of pressing the heel of her sharp black shoes against his balls, slowly but surely, but concluded that like the privatisation of the NHS, crushing his unions was for another day. She spat into her hand, spreading it around his Reaganite rim in one of the worst forms of makeshift lube she had ever used. To be frank, the olive oil she had found in No 10’s kitchen had been better than this, but it would be the President feeling the stretch, not her.  
‘Are you okay, Ronald? Is this alright?’ She put a slight pressure on his entrance with a finger, and pressed her way inside as he relaxed. After a few minutes more of kissing, along with the sharpest hickey that Reagan had ever received, Girl Boss Maggy T slid another of her slender fingers slowly into Reagan’s gaping deregulated hole. It was clear he hadn’t done this with his wife before as the sounds that he was attempting to make (his mouth was now stuffed with his tie) indicated a level of enjoyment that she suspected he hadn’t been able to achieve before. The market was truly free, and demand sure was causing supply.  
‘That’s a good boy,’ Thatcher growled.

A few minutes later, Reagan was panting with enjoyment, clearly trying not to be too loud or come before he was told. As he opened his mouth to speak, the Iron Lady hit his prostate. ‘Th-thank you—’ a sudden moan escaped his mouth, losing what little composure he had left, ‘f-for this.’  
A proud, but not boastful smile broke out on Maggie’s face.  
‘I would l-like to do this again sometime Maggie,’ Reagan said with a shaky breath. A frown broke out on her face.  
‘It’s still Mrs Thatcher to you Ronald, or Prime Minister.’  
Humiliated, Reagan looked away like a dog told off, longing for his Mistress’s approval.  
‘I-I’m sorry Mrs Thatcher.’ And with that, Girl Boss Maggy T lent over him, finally allowing for him to have his neglected cock touched as she wrapped her hand around the shaft, thumb near the tip. For Reagan, the sudden contact after it being denied for so long was too much for him to handle. He could barely stop himself as Mrs Thatcher’s small jerk of the hand caused him to cum with the violence of a police clash with striking miners. His shirt was ruined and he felt the sticky wetness seeping through the fabric onto his chest, but neither party seemed to care. Ronald Reagan had just had the most mind blowing orgasm of his entire life, and Margaret Thatcher was rather proud. His body shuddered with the same ecstatic sensation that his very own CIA agents had felt upon sampling the LSD being used in the MKULTRA experiments (not intended for them as the recipients of course). He could barely stop his legs from shaking, trying to calm himself down. The joy he felt was tantamount to the feeling he was sure he would’ve got if the spectre of communism had been crushed in that very instant. To be honest, it almost felt as if it had, with Mrs Thatcher by his side he felt as if he could achieve anything that his heart (and dick) most desired.

‘Good boy Ronald,’ she said, standing back up, composing herself easily as the President struggled to clean himself off and get his semi-hard dick back into some trousers.  
‘Do you want me to-?’ He asked, clearly humiliated by how little he had done for her. Margaret gave a withering, almost pitying look,  
‘Maybe next time, I think you might need a moment or so to recover, Mr President.’  
Reagan laughed uncomfortably, humiliated, but in a kind of hot, anti-Communist way,  
‘Okay Mrs Thatcher, whatever you say.’  
Margaret looked down upon Reagan, seeing beyond his superficial husk, and realising the pitiable little creature that he truly was. The Presidency was perfect for him, if only to compensate for his personal deficiencies. Ronald managed to gather the strength to stand, and the two pressed close again, sharing one last chaste and tender kiss, Thatcher turned to leave him.

It was as if their love could achieve anything, even the most unrealistic things of all, the fall of the Berlin Wall. The fall of Communism. Above all else, it had certainly been confirmed that the US and UK had a _special_ relationship…

**Author's Note:**

> #DominantGirlBoss Maggy Thatcher and Ronald Reagan both sucked! Remember to go look at their wiki pages or to google their economic policies, privatisation and section 28/the AIDS crisis. Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed Reagan taking it in the ass.
> 
> P.S. Also have a look at Marxists.org


End file.
